


made a plan to be someone

by jellyfishheart



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishheart/pseuds/jellyfishheart
Summary: Beth’s a detective barely scraping by. Sarah swears she isn’t a victim, but Beth knows how that story ends. AU.





	made a plan to be someone

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: suicide, domestic violence, drug abuse, vomit.  
> as Beth's in homicide this will obviously include a few bodies. 
> 
> I don't know, man; I had a clear image in my head of both women thinking they were in control of their shitty situations and then bumping up against each other and realizing they really weren't, and that led to this.  
> all my knowledge of cop stuff comes from tv and google so I apologize to any real cop who reads this. I did my best.
> 
> (for anyone waiting on "gods", if you're seeing this: soon! focusing on something else for a bit really helped me work through a rough part, and it's nearly complete. next thing I publish will be the final chapter. I can assure you.)

 

* * *

 

 

When Beth was a kid, she had a brief infatuation with card houses. It was the balancing, mostly, knowing that it could all come apart with one misplaced ace, or a breath she held for too long, scattering across the linoleum with another couple cards lost every time. She’d find them later under the fridge, or halfway down the hall. Those were always the cards that took the house down the next time.

 _You’ll get bored of it_ , her dad kept telling her. _Just watch. Nothing stays with you_.

To spite him, probably, she kept building them long after she lost interest. And then it became about the destruction: about which card she could nudge out of place to make the grandest collapse; could turn an empire into rubble, like the one small pawn they have to snatch from an operation to bring it all to its knees.

Pouchy is the task force’s target. So they’re at his lowest dealer’s hideout, scraping the grime from under their nails in the first bout of luck they’ve had in months.

It isn’t what she thought she’d be doing with her life. But it’s the last thing her dad wanted, so she makes her way through the crusty nest of an apartment with her gun out, shadowing two officers taking the left like the mediocre detective she is, eyes peeled and thoughts mostly on the takeout waiting for her back at the station.

 _Got someone_ , an officer calls from the back room, closer to the stench of urine than Beth would like. She approaches with her gun at the ready and only lowers it at the sight of an unmoving body on the threadbare couch.

It’s a woman – tangle of dark hair, face hidden in a cushion, split knuckles wrapped tight around the strap of a backpack she’s hugging like it’s all she’s got. There’s a crown of blood adorning her scalp that the officer notices at the same moment as Beth, and then he’s down trying to rouse her, hand still on his piece just in case.

 _Miss_ , he says, marginally better than the _sweetheart_ Beth’s grown all too accustomed to hearing.

He feels for a pulse and nods to Beth, and something inside her switches from _corpse_ to _victim_ with blade-like precision. She could blame it on the bruises, layered over skin like tissue paper, or the thin, watery scars, but mostly it’s the stillness: even from here she can tell it isn’t something that comes naturally.

The officer tries again, a little louder, and the woman shoots upright – hand to the blood on her head, eyeing the officer then Beth like they could be the cause before the softness of sleep gives way to a scowl.

_I’m Officer Jacobs. This is Detective Childs._

_Beth_ , Beth interjects. The woman’s eyes are on her, sharp, but only for a second.

 _Cops_ , she says. _Am I under arrest?_

 _We have a warrant for Victor Schmidt_ , the officer says. _Guessing that’s not you_.

The woman’s lips crack into a smile, and she directs her response over the officer’s head to Beth as if they’re the ones having this conversation. _‘Fraid not. Sorry. But wouldn’t that make it easier for you, finding the rat in his own trap._

She half pulls her backpack over a shoulder, actions stiff with what looks to be pain, but all that comes of it is a grimace Beth could almost pass off as annoyance. The woman’s got spunk – Beth’s victims are usually a little more dead, but she’s seen enough of the DV vics to know this isn’t how it usually goes.

 _Maybe you could help us out with that_ , the officer says as the woman starts to get up then sinks back into the couch as her surroundings become clear. _Come down to the station_. _Answer a few questions._

Beth takes a look around the tiny room as well, following the woman’s gaze over peeling walls and stacks of what must have once been newspapers.

 _Do I have a choice?_ the woman asks. She eyes the table Beth’s now staring at, where a pipe sits in plain view. Then she glances to her backpack. 

It’s Beth turn to smile, this time at the baggie sticking out of an unzipped side pocket. _Well we could look the other way, you know, if you give us something to work with. I bet you could use something to eat; I’ve got Chinese waiting for me at my desk._

The officer looks up in mild surprise, at either her offer to share food or her investment in what’s technically not even her department. With the bruises and clear defence wounds this’ll slide to DV as soon as they’re done with her – she’ll only be Beth’s when they find the body, two, maybe three months from now.

It’s a morbid thought. With the woman’s contemplative eyes on her, Beth wishes this ever went differently.

The woman’s shoulders rise, and her uninjured hand tucks the baggie further into her backpack with a resigned, _sure, yeah. Whatever._

 _All right_ , Beth says. _But we’re gonna need a name first._

She extends a hand to help her up. The woman’s grip is surprisingly tight; cold, but somehow Beth expected that, even in this swampy room. Maybe it’s the thin blue veins that run close to the surface of her skin. Or the glaze to her dark eyes.

 _Sarah_ , she says, after a second.

 _Got a last name?_ the officer asks, on his feet, moving ahead to clear a path.

Sarah sneers. _Yeah, but where’s the fun in that._

Her grin hits Beth like a straight ray of sun: hard, and warm, and Beth feels it to her toes. Sarah still doesn’t let go. If anything, her grasp tightens, as they weave through the carcass of Schmidt’s apartment, all bagged up and labelled.

 _The empire’s falling_ , Beth wants to say, but her gaze snags on Sarah’s skin and she can’t quite get it out. In the unfiltered light she’s painted even more awful colours; shades Beth hasn’t seen in a long time. Someone hates her. Someone must really hate her.

She settles on an apology that Sarah shrugs off.

_Don’t. Jesus._

So Beth says nothing.

 

* * *

 

Beth expects it, but the push to arrest for Sarah’s involvement still smarts, everything hanging on the condition of her giving up Schmidt. As if any girl turns on her abuser.

 _She’s a DV vic_ , she says to the cluster of detectives arguing outside the interview room, unable to explain even to herself why she’s sticking her neck out. _She clearly had no part in it if he left her behind_.

It lands, but barely. It’s got to be the woman thing; she’s sensitive, of course, especially to issues like these, so they humour her – it’s the boy’s club all over again, but at least for once it works in her favour.

They interview Sarah for four hours. Beth watches her wilt. Drops off coffee, watches her hands shake. It’s all so familiar.

 _What did he do to you?_ they finally ask.

Sarah shuts her mouth.

 _Would you prefer a woman?_ they say.

Sarah shrugs. Beth’s sent in.

 _Looks pretty nasty_ , she says. _If that was my guy he’d be long gone._

(No he wouldn’t.)

Sarah sees the look in her eyes; scoffs. _It’s different when they love you, yeah? You’re all too happy to make excuses._

Beth doesn’t ask again and they sit in silence and Sarah finally says, _it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle._

And Beth swallows hard, and says, _you know, they all tell me that._

And: _I’m sorry._

This time, Sarah accepts it.

 

* * *

 

Sarah’s released. Or, let go, because Beth badgers the lieutenant, voice in the octave she knows he hates.

 _She’ll give us something_ , she promises.

He grudgingly accepts it. And only because it’s the quickest way to get her to shut up.

A few days later Sarah returns with makeup covering nearly all of the evidence that she ever needed pity and hands Beth a torn envelope with an address scratched onto the front. Shifting, an uneasy shark, she says he’ll be there. That she’ll be there too, because this is how it goes.

 _You could do better_ , Beth says.

Sarah shrugs. _So could you._

 

* * *

 

Schmidt’s arrested and taken to processing and Sarah has another fresh cut on her forehead.

Beth puts a blanket around her shoulders in the back of a squad car; it stays for five minutes, and then it drops.

 _I can walk from here_ , Sarah says. She’s small in the flashing lights. A shrunken, leathery doll of herself.

 _There’s a place I could take you_ , Beth offers.

Sarah shakes her head. _I’ve got a place. A few places. Don’t worry._

Beth digs a card out of her pocket, writes down a number, hands it over.

_That’s my personal cell. Anything happens – anything you need – I’ll pick up._

Sarah sneers, but shoves it in her bag nonetheless. _You sound pretty lonely, no offense,_ she says.

It’s Beth’s turn to shrug. _That’s something I can live with._

 

* * *

 

Sarah calls in the middle of the night. Drunk. Beth picks up and leaves Paul in bed and locks herself in the bathroom, ready to grab her stuff and go.

 _Come over_ , Sarah says. _I know how to make you a little less lonely._

Beth sinks against the counter. _This wasn’t what I meant when I gave you my number._

Sarah says, _are you sure?_

And Beth can’t answer.

 _You’ve got to draw the line somewhere_ , Paul says when Beth comes back to bed, annoyed in the dark. _Work stops when you get home._

Home is work, she doesn’t say. She doesn’t know why part of her’s still trying to get ready, still trying to head to wherever Sarah wanted her to be.

 

* * *

 

There’s another battered woman at the station.

Beth does paperwork and watches her sob at another desk, across the room, broken exactly like she’s supposed to be. She accepts the pamphlet for the women’s shelter. She accepts the kind words. The help.

Beth looks away.

 

* * *

 

Beth fucks Paul for the first time in a while, in the shower, thinking if everything’s wet he might think it’s all for him and be into it for once and won’t call her out for the dead look in her eyes.

She touches his skin and wishes it was softer. Finds herself feeling around for scars that she knows aren’t there, and then she hears Sarah’s liquid voice on the phone that night and has her first orgasm in a long time.

Paul doesn’t look at her after. It’s fine. She’s used to it.

For once it doesn’t sting.

 

* * *

 

Sarah’s waiting outside the station one night when Beth’s leaving at a reasonable hour, hands in coat pockets and lips chapped. She’s heading for her car in the lot across the street. Sarah steps out of a shadow with two coffees like a fucking monster under some sad kid’s bed.

 _I figured I’d get one with cream, one with sugar,_ Sarah says. _Drink whichever you didn’t want_.

 _How do you take your coffee?_ Beth asks. She’s watching the steam cut through the chill of the night, making small clouds around Sarah’s hands.

Sarah smiles, nearly a smirk. _Black._

Beth chuckles. _Me too._

Sarah eyes both cups and roughly hands one over. _Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be that predictable. Maybe this’ll sweeten you up._

They drink the offending coffees and walk to Beth’s car at a snail’s pace, neither commenting on why Sarah’s here. Beth doesn’t fish out her keys. Sarah leans against the car door, and something hot pools low in Beth’s abdomen.

 _I have a boyfriend,_ she says, cringing at her own words.

Sarah smirks. _You arrested mine._

Beth can still see a shadow of a bruise on Sarah’s face and the healing cut on her lip. But then she stares too long and Sarah’s kissing her, moving so Beth’s pinned to her car where realistically anyone could see. She doesn’t care – it surprises her. Sarah tastes like bad coffee and cigarettes and a tinge of blood and it’s the most alive Beth’s felt in years.

 _I’ll see you_ , Sarah says after. And she’s gone before Beth can say a word.

 

* * *

 

Realistically, she should dump Paul.

She doesn’t. The lease is in his name, it’s his place, she’s so tied to him in ways she didn’t even know.

And then there’s this: Sarah doesn’t come back.

Not for three weeks, long enough for Beth to go through a month’s supply of pills, get another warning from Art, avoid Paul long enough for him to start sleeping at Coady’s again.

The facts on the table are pathetic – she kissed a perp's girlfriend, where anyone could’ve seen. She wakes up in the middle of the night thinking her phone’s ringing. And she’s falling apart over nothing. Sarah is nothing. Sarah is the same tired woman she sees time and time again, thinking she can outsmart her sad fate.

Beth gets high and lets it play out as a funeral.

Sarah might be dead, anyway. Schmidt was bailed out and Beth stops thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

Sarah’s in handcuffs the next time she sees her, being led through the station with her shirt ripped and her eye so swollen and purple it doesn’t look real.

Beth’s first instinct is to slap the officer’s hands off of her but she sinks down at her desk. Sarah’s good eye trails over her, angry. Apologetic. Embarrassed.

 _What’s she in for?_ Beth asks the second officer, who’s wiping spit off his uniform with crumpled paper towel.

 _Assault. That guy we picked up for the Pouchy thing wants to press charges_.

Beth glances back to Sarah, who’s being led to an interview room with blood running down the back of her leg.

_Are you fucking… She’s a victim. Look at her._

The officer looks, shrugs, goes back to the spit that’s no doubt Sarah’s. _Not my call, Childs. Talk to the lieutenant._

She does, and says the same thing without the attitude hoping Lieutenant Hardcastle will overlook his constant disappointment in her to do the right thing. He’s in a good mood today. Doesn’t seem to find her grating.

 _You vouching for her?_ he asks.

She looks through the glass to the interview room, where Sarah’s wincing with a hand on her lower back. Gotta be where the blood’s coming from. Beth puts her hands in her pockets.

_Yeah. She’s had years of this, Lieutenant. You want to punish her for finally trying to stand up for herself?_

He thinks on it, raps on the glass. The officer comes out. _Cut her loose_ , the lieutenant says.

 _Can we get her like, a restraining order or something? For Schmidt?_ Beth asks.

Sarah comes out, handcuffs removed. She looks feral; like something being released from a trap after far too long. Starved.

 _No thanks,_ Sarah says. _I can take care of myself._

Beth gives her a onceover. _Clearly._

Sarah goes without saying thank-you and Beth wonders if it’s even worth it.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later Schmidt’s brought in again. Another step closer to Pouchy.

Beth contemplates throwing her coffee in his face; locking the door and hurling a chair at him, like he’s no doubt done to Sarah. But she’s at her desk and he walks by with a smirk on his ugly mug like he’s getting away with everything.

 _Look_ , Art says, catching Beth’s expression. _You can’t save them all._

Beth says, _yeah, I know. But you think…_

And then they’re quiet, and both staring at the picture of Beth and Paul on her desk that has a dried splatter of soup across the glass. It grimaces right back at them.

 

* * *

 

Sarah calls in the middle of the night. Beth takes it like it’s routine, into the bathroom, shower running in case Paul wakes up.

 _Drunk again?_ Beth asks.

 _No,_ Sarah says. _Come over._

Beth opens a cabinet, avoids her reflection, stares down all the bottles of pills. Maybe she’s hallucinating this entire call; maybe she wants it too much, and this is her punishment.

 _Where?_ she asks.

Sarah says, _I’ll text you the address. I’m alone._

Beth packs a toothbrush, too hopeful. Wiggles into a pair of black panties she long ago stopped wearing for Paul and then stares at herself in the mirror and smears condensation over her reflection’s eyes. She pulls on sweatpants. A shirt she wears for running. Paul wakes up and she tells him she’s going to the gym.

 _It’s two a.m.,_ he says.

 _Can’t sleep,_ she replies. _Restless energy. Might as well use it._

He doesn’t catch that she’s wearing mascara, or that her hair’s down.

The text comes through. Beth recognizes the area as one she’s been to a handful of times, always on duty. She goes anyway. Parks in a dark alley. Heads up a flight of stairs that clangs under her footfall and smells more like blood and sweat than she’d like to admit.

The door’s on a track, and rolls open when she knocks. Every surface is sticky. Sarah smiles. _Didn’t think you’d show_.

Beth walks in like an intruder, to what’s clearly someone else’s loft. No way Sarah paints. Not this many angry pictures of herself. A second later Beth realizes Sarah’s not wearing any pants at all, just underwear, her shirt riding up to reveal a welt that Beth wishes she didn’t see.

 _So is this a booty call, or whatever?_ Beth asks.

She moves like a rabbit, and Sarah’s the wolf, circling with her teeth out. Sarah runs a finger down Beth’s jaw line.

 _It is what you want it to be. But I thought you might be lonely_.

She drops to the couch, and Beth stays standing, looking down at her. _I left my boyfriend to come. He thinks I’m at the gym._

Sarah gives her a look of approval, and pats the couch cushion. _Are you tired?_ she asks. _We could just sleep. Watch a movie, or somethin’._

Beth sits. Primly. Then sinks back, and she’s close enough to Sarah to smell her, something spiced and hot.

 _Kiss me_ , she says.

Sarah does.

 _Again_ , Beth says.

Sarah climbs on top of her. Straddles her. Kisses all the way down her neck, and Beth’s hands find a patch of skin not touched by scars that feels softer than Paul ever has.

 _Do you like to be in charge?_ Sarah asks, sitting back far enough to appraise her.

A smile tugs on Beth’s lips as she considers it. _Take off your shirt, Sarah._

Sarah does without hesitation.

 

* * *

 

Beth knows Sarah’s going to take off any day now.

Sarah tells her things in pieces, whenever Beth comes over, always at the loft that doesn’t belong to her, always after they’ve fucked like the oldest cliché.

_Vic’s not the first. I’m not a victim. I got stuck, but… It’s a con, you know._

Beth says nothing. Sometimes she’ll put her mouth on Sarah’s skin, aiming to bite, suckling instead at her neck or jaw.

 _You’ve seen my record, yeah? You know how it goes_.

Beth has; she still thinks “victim” sticks, because Sarah never comes out unscathed. But she always comes out of it. So maybe that’s something.

 _What about you?_ Sarah asks one night, when Beth’s half asleep.

She’s thinking about her toothbrush balanced on the sink that she forgot last time and is somehow still here. It isn’t Sarah’s place, so someone must have seen it and decided to let it stay. She realizes Sarah said something and lifts her head from Sarah’s chest.

_What about me?_

Sarah smiles, a bit patronizing. She has her fingers tracing the bumps of Beth’s spine, and then they stop at a scar near Beth’s neck.

 _Who are you, Elizabeth Childs?_ she asks.

Beth puts her head back against Sarah’s chest. Shuts her eyes, listening to the heartbeat. _No one. Just a girl._

She thinks about it for a second as Sarah stills and splays her hand flat across Beth’s back.

_Paul doesn’t love me. It didn’t used to matter._

He doesn’t ask where she’s going anymore, like he’s hoping it’s some other guy and he’ll finally be off the hook. Telling Sarah feels like ripping herself open. Alive. She feels alive. She hasn’t taken a pill all day.

 _He doesn’t deserve you,_ Sarah says.

Beth wants her to continue. She wants to ask where this is going, if Sarah thinks that she deserves Beth, if there’s one person who finally cares about her. But she doesn’t say anything.

She wakes up a few hours later still on Sarah’s chest, Sarah’s arms cradling her so she can’t slip away.

 

* * *

 

Sarah goes.

There’s a text ( _I’m sorry_ ) and then silence and Beth laughs at herself for thinking something good could stay.

She does a line of coke before work and hurls a glass across the apartment so it shatters on the back wall. Paul comes out without a word, gingerly picking up the shards. He looks at her like this is what he expected. She wants him to tell her she deserves it, but he won’t even say that he knows she was with someone else. He won’t even look at her.

At work, she finds Sarah in the database, just to see if anything’s been added to her record. Nothing. She could look through traffic cameras but it feels too creepy, too much like the guy behind bars, and she closes the program and starts in on the mound of paperwork sitting on her desk.

 _Something happen?_ Art asks as he brings her coffee.

 _Nothing_ , she says. _Not a fucking thing._

 

* * *

 

They bring Pouchy down. It’s a victory that they all celebrate, the whole squad heading out for drinks on a cold night that has Beth wishing to spot Sarah in the parking lot or on the street or whizzing by in a cab.

She thinks she catches a glimpse of her in the mirror behind the bar but she turns around and it’s some other girl, someone without bruises, without that sneaky smile, laughing at some fucker’s bad jokes.

 _You’re jumpy tonight_ , Art says.

He’s asking if she took anything; if everything’s okay, if there’s anything he can do.

She shakes her head. _We’re celebrating, right? Order us some shots_.

She drinks until she can’t feel a thing. Art takes her home in a cab and hands her off to Paul, and Paul thanks him and pulls Beth inside like she’s a leaking bag of garbage.

 _Should’ve called Sarah_ , she mumbles, as Paul takes off her boots.

 _Who’s Sarah?_ he asks. _Beth, who’s Sarah?_

But she’s crying, and she doesn’t answer him. Eventually he leaves her to undress herself.

 

* * *

 

Her doorbell rings when she’s sitting numbly on the couch the next afternoon. Paul’s at Coady’s, there for a while, he said, and he’d use his key anyway if there was something he forgot.

She’s hungover. She’s in sweatpants and a sports bra, trying to work up the energy to go to the gym or go back to bed. It’s her usual dilemma on days off: whether she wants to acknowledge them or not.

She gets up. Gets the door. Sarah’s shifting from foot to foot on her doorstep like a bomb.

 _What the fuck_ , Beth says.

It’s been a month. Over a month. She hadn’t stopped hoping, but seeing Sarah in the daylight it feels like a mirage. She wouldn’t put it past herself to conjure this up as some type of punishment.

 _How’d you find my place,_ she asks when Sarah says nothing.

Sarah winces. _Went through your wallet, took a few things. Guess you didn’t notice. And you’re a cop, so…_

Beth rolls her eyes, mostly at herself. _Yeah, a shitty one. Uh, come in?_

She steps aside and it’s Sarah’s turn to move as an invader, walking carefully into the minimalism. Nothing here was designed with Beth in mind either, Beth wants to tell her, but Sarah has her arms crossed and her gaze jerks around in a way that’s almost rewarding to watch, being on the other side of it for once.

Beth shuts the door and a chunk of sun goes with it. Sarah drifts into the kitchen.

 _Got anything to drink?_ she asks.

Beth remembers that Sarah left, that Sarah didn’t say why, that she did exactly what Beth knew she would.

 _No_ , she says. _Yeah, but nothing I’m offering._

Sarah nods. _Guess I deserve that._

Beth asks, _why are you here?_

And it’s the first time she’s felt like she’s in charge of this, that she isn’t just being jerked around by Sarah’s whims. For a second she wants there to be a power struggle. But Sarah relents.

 _I missed you_ , she says.

 _Bullshit_ , Beth replies.

Sarah opens the fridge, eyes the imported beer and the pitcher of water and all the empty space. Beth catches a flash of her life through someone else’s eyes: it’s sad. Clean, but sad.

 _You’re a cop,_ Sarah says. _I couldn’t call you. I-_

A cold wave runs through Beth’s body. _You’re in trouble_ , she says.

Sarah shrugs. She settles on the pitcher of water, pulling it out. Like this is her place she grabs glasses out of the cupboard and pours them both a drink.

 _I took something from Vic. Pouchy’s guys figured it out_ , Sarah says.

Beth shuts her eyes. Of course they did; it’s a whole operation, and Sarah’s just a girl on the bottom rung.

 _Are they after you?_ Beth asks.

 _I wanted to say goodbye,_ Sarah says. _A real one. I don’t know where this ends._

Beth shakes her head, accepts the water, drinks like it’s something else. Sarah does the same. _I can get you protection_ , Beth says.

 _No, not from this_ , Sarah tells her.

And: _this is my life. This is how it always goes. I’m always running from something._

A braver Beth would insist, would evaluate her life and drop everything and go with her. She pictures the two of them in a car on a dusty stretch of road, something old on the radio, holding hands. They go over a cliff. She tries to picture a motel room but can only hear the shower running and feel the scratch of cheap blankets under her back as she cries.

 _Yeah_ , she relents. _I know_.

Sarah finishes her water and sets the glass down hard. It doesn’t shatter.

 _So. Can I fuck you in your own bed for once?_ she asks.

Beth’s knees actually weaken, like an idiot. She leads the way.

 

* * *

 

They arrest three more of Pouchy’s guys. It’s a deep operation, and it feels endless.

Every time one comes in Beth stares him down and wonders if he has a picture of Sarah somewhere on him; some reminder of who’s left to kill.

She thinks about Sarah chopped up into pieces. Buried somewhere.

It isn’t worry, but she can’t stop picturing it.

 

* * *

 

 _There was a girl_ , she tells Art, once, when she’s drunk at his place.

It’s been a long week. They’ve all been long weeks. Art’s eyebrows go up and he refills his glass but leaves hers alone.

 _No shit_ , he says. _Was?_

She tells him as much as she can. Which is: _she’s gone, but it was good. For a bit._

And then she cries.

 

* * *

 

Pouchy’s guys peel in like fly strips, slowly, week after week of mangled men led through the station.

There’s a woman, once. She’s beautiful and angry and Beth thinks of Sarah before blinking it away. The handcuffs don’t help.

Art drags her out for lunch, saying nothing. She takes a pill when he isn’t looking but he knows.

 

* * *

 

There’s a body. Looks like DV, the way the skull’s bashed in, something blunt and personal. That’s what they say.

It’s a woman. Half buried in the woods with her clothes torn off.

Schmidt’s in jail and Beth doesn’t fully go there but she’s still holding her breath as they roll the body over to reveal the rotting face.

 _I know how this gets to you_ , Art says, quietly, away from everyone else.

Beth shakes her head. _It isn’t her._

He looks at her, pieces falling into place. And nods.

 

* * *

 

 _She didn’t want protection_ , Beth says, sober this time, on Art’s couch.

She’s mostly staring at a drawing of his daughter’s that hangs like a corpse from his freezer door. It’s a picture of someone smiling, but it’s red. Art seems like he wants to ask but remains silent, gaze fixed to the TV that’s playing out some baking competition show he was hoping she’d be into.

 _I keep thinking if we get them all, if they’re all behind bars, she might come back. But…_ She trails off, not wanting to admit that she’s pretty sure she was just another con of Sarah’s.

Art takes her hand.

 _Maybe it’s not the only reason she ran_ , he says, and she sees herself in his eyes, a tiny, warped reflection.

 

* * *

 

She calls the number Sarah used, a lifetime ago. It was a burner. She knew that, but it feels nice to confirm.

Part of her thinks about heading to the loft, seeing who really lives there and maybe getting her toothbrush back.

She never admitted to forgetting it on purpose after the first time. She knew Sarah figured that out.

 

* * *

 

They bring in another guy of Pouchy’s, this one with his own side thing that in turn brings in ten more guys. It’s laughable, how quickly they fold on each other. That house of cards.

Beth thinks about her own life; how out of everyone, only two people would sooner collapse than fold on her.

And one of them’s gone.

And she doesn’t even know for sure.

 

* * *

 

She goes to the loft. She’s taken a few too many pills, and everything feels glassy. It’s a stupid idea to drive but she parks in the same dark alley and sees graffiti she hadn’t before and thinks a rough sketched-out thing looks an awful lot like Sarah before climbing the pungent staircase.

The door’s stickier than she remembered; it rolls open to a boy in an apron and nothing else, maybe barely out of high school. His confusion gives way to a smirk as she stumbles.

 _Beth_ , he says.

She wobbles inside as he waves her forward and the place looks more or less the same – a few more paintings, smaller in the daylight. No one sits on the couch. No one’s in the kitchen area, waiting to see her. She fixates on a half-finished painting of Sarah that perches on an easel. It’s choppy. It looks like someone tried to stay mad, but couldn’t.

 _She left something for you_ , the boy says, turning so his entire bare ass is in Beth’s line of sight. It should faze her, but mostly it just feels like a tiny explanation of a corner of Sarah’s world.

 _Was she your girlfriend?_ she asks, thinking she might be stereotyping on the lilt of his voice.

He laughs. _No, darling. My foster sister._

A few more pieces click into place. Beth drops to the couch, like this is her own.

 _I didn’t know_ , she says.

 _I know_ , the boy says. _She’s not big on honesty._

He comes over with an envelope stained with coffee rings and something dark and takes a seat close enough to Beth to be comforting, if that’s what she needs.

 _I’m Felix_ , he says. _Sarah told me you’d probably come looking. That you’re too clever for your own good._

She turns the envelope in her hands, wincing at her name written small and careful on the front. She’d ask him what it says but gets the feeling he doesn’t know, that he’s only handing it over. Maybe it’s respect. She looks back to the half-finished painting, where Sarah’s mouth is a white gash of canvas.

 _Sorry I barged in_ , she says. Her vision’s wobbling. It’s time for another pill, but she doesn’t want to fish it out of her purse in front of someone who might understand.

 _Honestly, I expected you sooner_ , he says. Smiles.

He puts a hand on her arm, and she wishes she had family who cared even after she fucked up. But she won’t think about her parents in a stranger’s loft. She won’t think about her past at all.

She lifts the flap of the envelope. Felix gets up, saying he’ll give her some privacy. It’s a small space but he heads back to the painting and starts filling in the bottom of Sarah’s face. Beth waits until she sees the corners of the mouth lifted up, Sarah’s little smirk, to pull out the contents of the envelope.

Three pages. A photo of Sarah and a kid. Beth’s gym membership card. _Kira, age 8,_ the photo says on the back. She neatens the three pages and starts to read, a lump in her throat at her name, again, in Sarah’s handwriting.

 _Just so you know who you’re really missing, if you’re missing me at all_ , it begins.

Beth curls up on the couch and continues.

 

* * *

 

Felix offers her a drink, after she’s done and has tears dried to her cheeks. She pocketed her toothbrush when she went to wash them off and then just stared at her reflection and left them.

 _Thanks, but I’m working tomorrow_ , she says.

 _It’s just one drink_ , he says, hand on a bottle.

She smiles and it feels sad, even for her. _It’s never just one drink with me._

For the first time she wonders what Sarah saw in her; what made Sarah return, keep calling, when she’s clearly such a mess.

She stumbles back down the stairs and falters at her car. Someone tried to break in. She wishes they had, because at least it’d give her a reason to collapse in the driver’s seat.

She pulls the photo from the envelope and sticks it under an elastic strap on the sun visor. Sarah’s smiling in it; she hugs her daughter, and her daughter looks happy. It’s recent, Beth realizes, going by the bruise Sarah didn’t quite manage to cover on her neck. She snaps the sun visor shut and Sarah disappears.

 _Why did you want me to know her_ , she thinks. _Why did you want me to know anything._

 

* * *

 

They’ll never get all of Pouchy’s guys.

It’s a fucking Hydra, and Beth keeps chopping off heads, and in their places sprout ten more every time.

She stops looking as they’re arrested. She stops looking for Sarah marking their hands, because it could be any one of them, but she knows it isn’t. Sarah wouldn’t let that be the end of her story.

She has a daughter. She’ll come back one day.

 

* * *

 

 _I could go see her_ , she says over lunch, picking at fries.

Art stops in the middle of inhaling his burger. _Who?_ he asks.

She crams a fry into her mouth because she already knows it’s stupid. More so, it’s fucked up, and exactly the kind of thing Sarah’s usual marks would pull.

 _Her daughter_ , she says to her plate. Art makes the face she’s feeling.

 _Beth_ , he warns.

 _I know_ , she says.

But she pictures it anyway: there’s a kid out there who looks like Sarah and some anonymous guy, learning piano and awaiting Sarah’s prolonged return. At the very least Beth could tell her she’s not the only one left behind. She’d listen to Kira play whatever song she’s learned in Sarah’s absence and ask about school and be awkward enough for Kira to see right through her.

 _Maybe it’s time to start moving on_ , Art says.

Yeah. But. She doesn’t even know what she’s moving on _from_.

 

* * *

 

Felix calls her.

 _I didn’t give you my number,_ she says on picking up. A whole damn family of grifters.

She’s at her desk, and Paul stares at her from the stained photo frame with a painful smile. She didn’t see it then; he was miserable, and she was twenty-seven and desperate. Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes.

 _She told me to look after you,_ Felix says.

 _Well, I’m peachy_ , she says, and eyes a stack of sticky notes. It’d be easy to cover Paul’s face once and for all, but she knows what people would say. She knows how quickly an illusion crumbles when one person stops playing.

 _Okay, that’s bullshit, but okay,_ Felix says, then adds, _you should come by the loft._

Her chest tightens. _I don’t get off ‘til eleven._

There’s a laugh, and Felix says, _darling, that’s when the night begins._

 

* * *

 

She goes straight there, in work clothes, realizing while parking it’s the same pantsuit she was wearing when she first found Sarah in the tiny back room. She checks her reflection in a puddle that shines with gasoline at the edges. Her eyes are dark, a smudge on her face. It’s fine.

Any other look would feel like a lie, at this point, and she climbs the stairs like someone at the top actually wants to see her. Felix has the door slid open and waiting when she gets there.

 _Shit_ , he says, _I forgot you were a cop._

She accepts the unnaturally blue drink he hands her and smiles wryly. _Detective, actually._

He makes a face and sips his own drink, and then motions to the couch, where the absence is glaring. She didn’t know how much she expected to see Sarah until it’s just a gaping hole, and then Felix takes her by the arm and they sit and she pours the whole blue drink down her throat without tasting it.

 _She called me_ , he says as they both stare at her empty glass. _Told me she’s trying_.

Beth swallows hard. _Yeah, but… what does that mean._

She’s slumping against the back of the couch, her body limp and corpselike once everything starts to rot. There was another body last week that didn’t look anything like Sarah and she still found herself pressing her nails hard against her palms, little half moons.

 _She’s been doing this her whole life,_ Felix says, and then gets up to refill Beth’s drink. He’s far away in the kitchen. Beth doesn’t move her head and can only see the painting of Sarah, now finished, wedged between two ghosts of herself on a shelf. _She goes for a while and eventually comes back,_ Felix continues. _She left Kira for a year._

He returns with a second blue drink, this one garnished with a small paper umbrella. It’s cold in her hand. She watches the cherry swirl, around and around, and wonders if it’ll ever sink.

 _Why am I here?_ she asks.

Felix sits with his own drink, and his cherry is a stone at the bottom. _You’re in the club now, love. People she left behind._

She takes the umbrella out carefully, one-handed, and pulls it shut. Like this it could be a weapon if she wanted; the end is sharp, and it would go through enough skin to hurt. It’s in her mouth before she can think about it. She finds the end with her tongue, and jabs. Hard.

 _Did she tell you I have a boyfriend?_ she says through the tart taste of blood.

Felix smiles. It drips with pity. _She didn’t have to._

Beth washes the blood away with a sip of blue, and thinks of it turning purple inside her. Every colour makes her think of Sarah and all the bruises.

 _We should dance_ , Felix says, hopping off the couch. He sloshes his drink down his pants but doesn’t notice, and then music’s on and Beth gets pulled to her feet.

Paul took her dancing exactly one time; he told her it was like trying to lead a ragdoll, and that was it. She does her best to move without Felix tugging her.

She’s crying, but it doesn’t have anything to do with Sarah at all.

 

* * *

 

Her dad dies. She gets a voicemail, and that’s that; he’s gone.

It takes her a minute to recognize her mother’s voice through the machine but then it cracks and Beth sits and she decides she’s had more than enough time to grieve over this.

 _I’m sorry,_ Art says in the car, on their way to a crime scene.

She looks out the window. _I’m not_.

In the silence she considers what she’d tell Sarah, if Sarah was here – that he only ever knew how to stain, maybe. That she hated him. But she thinks Sarah would see through her lies, and then they’d be staring at each other, both of them waiting for the other to say it first.

It doesn’t matter. Sarah isn’t here so Beth doesn’t have to pretend.

 

* * *

 

The funeral’s on a Tuesday.

She doesn’t go.

He always wanted to be a cop, too drunk to ever pull it together, and she cradles her gun and thinks about his dreams and how many people had to pay for them. The muzzle’s cold as she presses it to her skin – not her temple, just her palm, because she’ll never give him that much power. But she wants to know. What it’s like. What he felt in those last minutes.

 _Do you remember_ , she asks the air, _the last time I ever hugged you?_

No response.

_I hope it hurt._

 

* * *

 

Turns out it’s easy not to think about the dead – she carries on, and each arrest is a victory, and in her sleep she stops seeing Sarah’s face in the morgue. It’s never her dad. Never the fact that there’s no face to be seen, with what he did to it.

Paul holds her for about twenty minutes one night as she cries in the dark and it isn’t about anything and he doesn’t even ask but she remembers that she used to love him; she really used to love every part of him.

 _You’re okay_ , he tells her with a kiss to her head.

Maybe he’s thinking of someone else.

 

* * *

 

It’s a dream, but Sarah comes back.

Beth tells her everything: who she used to be, that she still can’t mourn, about every piece of herself she left behind. They stay up for twelve hours and fuck and Sarah’s still there when the sun rises. Sarah’s still holding Beth’s hand. Sarah isn’t a mirage at all.

Beth wakes with her tongue sore, like she’d been knotting cherries in her sleep.

 _You were crying again_ , Paul says from the bed beside her.

 _Sorry_ , she tells him.

He reaches over and his hand finds her abdomen. _Don’t be. You’re finally feeling something._

His face is hopeful, in the slanted morning light, and she stares like he’s a stranger until she can find it in herself to put her fingers over his. She wants to tell him that she finally gets what it means to love someone. That it doesn’t involve him at all.

 _I’m sorry_ , she says, again, instead.

 

* * *

 

 _Are we friends?_ she asks Felix the fourth time he has her over, the two of them well on their way to drunk with something bright red and sinful.

It doesn’t taste like anything she could ever name, and it’s staining both their mouths. It might be his best one yet.

He repositions himself on the couch. _Why? Do you need friends?_

She’s just guessing that it’s staining her mouth too, going off the red tint to his teeth and pursed lips. The mirror’s too far for her to know for sure, but every sip her mouth feels darker, and she can’t let go of the idea of him as her reflection. Two vampires in a poorly-lit loft. Avoiding every single pair of Sarah’s unblinking acrylic eyes.

 _No_ , she says.

He grins. _You bloody liar._

It’s always the two of them and a ghost, and she’s grown tired of talking about it. But he knows.

 _Yeah_ , he says, a second later. _We’re friends._

She waits for the condition but it never comes. Eventually, she can’t see Sarah’s eyes at all.

 

* * *

 

The body in the quarry has its hands chopped off.

They all know the symbolism, and all she can smell is dust, thickening the air like a quality roux. Art steps back to stand beside her.

 _Red hair_ , he says.

She gives back, _I know_.

But she knows more about disguises than she’ll ever say out loud, and in the moment, it’s Sarah’s arms that end where they once touched her.

 _Beth_ , he says.

She clears her throat. Tightens her jacket.

 _Some message_ , she says, and walks away before Art can respond.

 

* * *

 

Maybe if she was someone that prayed.

But.

Forgiveness, and all that shit.

 

* * *

 

The left hand arrives at the station about a half hour before Beth loses her lunch to a bathroom stall, wrapped up all pretty in butcher’s paper in a small cardboard box.

 _What kind of sick fuck_ , the lieutenant says when it’s opened, which honestly sums it up.

Mostly they shift on their feet and all try not to think about the right hand, on its way to god knows where. Beth pictures the vic’s mother opening her door to an unmarked package. Or her kid checking the mailbox. Unwrapping all that crisp brown paper.

They’d have to recognize it. You don’t hold a hand for that many years and not commit it to memory. But then she thinks about Paul’s, and her head is hot.

He wouldn’t recognize hers either. She’s sure of it.

It doesn’t stop her hitting up the ladies’ room a few minutes later, letting all that sureness cloud the toilet bowl with the worst kind of desperation.

And then she sits.

Fishes a pill from her pocket.

 

* * *

 

The sky opens up like someone should be pairing off animals, a few nights later, when she’s walking back from the drugstore with a hopeful amount of Nyquil.

It isn’t that she hasn’t been sleeping, but there’s the issue of dreams, and of waking to find Paul in bed next to her every time that has her wanting to blot at reality just a bit. At least this way’s legal. And she doesn’t have to hit up her dealer for another week.

She’s in the wrong damn jacket to be caught in the rain, she realizes a minute into it – and  ducks into the nearest doorway in some subconscious act of preservation that has her staring through the downpour at an actual church. In the sheets of rain it’s just an outline, but she’s not stupid.

She knows exactly what her mother would say about signs.

 _I’m sorry_ , she says out loud, her voice crumbled by the storm. Nothing’s listening, but she continues.

Forgive me.

I’m trying.

Dad.

Someone sprays past on a bike, laughing. Her socks are wet.

It settles into a drizzle five minutes later, and she walks home in the cold with ice in her chest, telling herself every dark shape in the distance is Sarah just waiting for her to catch up. She’s trying. She’s really fucking trying.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t call her mother, but she does send flowers.

Lilies.

Her mother liked those once.

 _It gets easier_ , Art says as she places the order, and she thinks of his own dad’s funeral, overflowing into the hall.

She makes a face. _Just trying to appease the universe._

But he laughs, and she laughs too, forgetting for a second why her chest always hurts the way it does. It’s good. For that second, it’s something. And then she exhales.

 

* * *

 

Here’s what she knows about loyalty: Pouchy has his hands in everything, and it’s fear. All of it. Every guy with his name between their teeth.

Not even half the charges stick. He gets ten years, max, less than most of his guys, and the next one they bring in has the gall to laugh at their efforts.

_Do you know how deep this goes? Just wait ‘til he gets out._

Beth thinks of the playing cards she kept even after they ripped. It only made them stronger, better holds for the cards she balanced on top. The rough edges gave her more of an advantage than anything else.

The lieutenant puts on a show in the interview room but he comes out and years have been added to his face.

 _Keep digging_ , he says. _If they’re scared, it’s working. Means we’re almost there._

No one will ask if it’s even worth it, but it’s on all of their tongues.

 

* * *

 

Felix calls from his own phone for once.

 _She’s in Cornwall_ , he says, and the line crackles, and Beth thinks she’s imagining it.

The crushed pill on her counter sits patiently, waiting for her to figure it out.

 _No shit_ , she says, after the world’s longest pause.

Then Felix pauses as well, and Beth cuts the powder with an old credit card as the silence bunches.

 _She’s with a guy_ , he continues. _Starting over_.

Everything in Beth’s body chills at once. She’s staring at her own dead eyes in the mirror and recognizes nothing and can’t place the distant pounding until she realizes it’s her heart, now somewhere up between her ears.

 _I’m sorry_ , he says.

She thinks about the bridge over the train tracks. A few blocks south.

 _Fuck_ , he says. _I should’ve come over. Not done this on the phone._

She bristles. _No. I don’t want you anywhere near my life. Don’t contact me again._

The line on the counter is gone in a second, and all she feels is static. In the distance, a train whistles.

 

* * *

 

 _A sick day?_ Paul asks, seeing her on the couch.

She’d forgotten he was home. She looks right through him.

 _Yeah_ , she says. _Something like that._

 

* * *

 

She was a clever kid. That’s what her mother always said, always the tone of surprise like kids never manage to outshoot their parents.

They didn’t watch her graduate from the police academy, but they sent a card, and her mother didn’t even have to forge her dad’s signature for once. She could just see him sitting in his armchair, putting all his regrets into each scratch of his name.

Maybe if she’d ever stopped to look back. She could’ve seen the ways they tried, which has to be what matters in the end.

She was clever. They loved her anyway.

They couldn’t protect her. But she survived, and everyone has scars.

She can still feel all of Sarah’s on her fingertips. On the flat of her tongue. Like Sarah’s the one waiting for her at the end of a long tunnel, a paper cutout in the pinhole of light.

It isn’t as cold as she thought.

 

* * *

 

 _What the_ fuck _, Beth,_ Art says, softer than he probably means it, hauling her off the floor.

He’s warm. She forgot, that he was someone who could hold her. She forgot that he knew how to say her name. He has her on her feet and she vomits and he doesn’t loosen the arm around her back, not even when the vomit hits his shirt.

 _I thought you were smarter than this_ , he says now. He’s wiping her chin, too gentle.

She’s crying. Maybe it’s the acid in her throat or the expression she catches every time she figures out how to focus but her head is so full and her eyes won’t stop leaking.

_Paul called me. He was worried. Tell me this was an accident._

Maybe. She can’t remember.

She just remembers _wanting_. The way everything dug under her skin.

_Let’s get you to the couch. Come on, it’s only a few steps. Good girl._

She opens her eyes and he’s right there with her, so full of concern it aches.

 _I’m sorry_ , she whispers. _I’m trying._

Still covered in the contents of her stomach, he pulls her closer, soft brackets around her wobbly statement. She’s lost track of how many times he’s had to clean up her messes. He breathes in a rhythm she struggles to remember, trying to match her chest to his chest until it burrows under the feel of his fingers against her scalp.

 _I have a guy you can see_ , he says. _Under the table._

She’d forgotten about her record; about the job that dangles by a splintering thread.

 _I wasn’t thinking_ , she whispers.

His fingers keep stroking, a little softer now.

_I know. It was an accident. It’s okay._

They should lock her up. Somewhere with padded walls. Maybe then Sarah would-

She remembers all over again, and her chest folds in on itself.

 

* * *

 

 _I just need a few days_ , she tells the lieutenant over the phone.

He sighs and she pictures him rubbing his eyes. _Don’t we all._

But then: _You’ve stepped up, Childs. I hope you know that. Don’t let it take you out; it’d be a real shame._

 

* * *

 

Paul holds her.

 _Sometimes you really make me think about my mother_ , he says, and he must think she’s sleeping, the two of them on the couch, because he never talks about his family. Not to her.

She keeps her breathing steady, trying to discern the emotion that comes with his soft voice. He’s always been good at sticking to that unwavering middle; never veering off into anything anyone could ever define. She used to find it admirable. She used to pretend they weren’t two people who only knew how to lie to each other.

 _I was always so sure she’d take her own life_ , he says, a finger stroking her cheek. _But she never got the chance._

 _Is that why you love me_ , she wants to ask.

She could never figure that out. Maybe he’s trying to come clean.

 

* * *

 

It feels like something that should have scarred. That’s all she can really think about it.

She steps back into her life and moves forward, and somewhere in Cornwall Sarah’s doing the same, with a guy who’s probably hearing all the same lines while she fucks him in his bed. It’s easy to be bitter when Beth couldn’t get away that efficiently if her life depended on it. Which-

Shit. She’s such a brainless _ass_ sometimes.

Maybe out of some lingering penance, she finally gives in and calls Felix on a stifling lunch break, slumped down so far at her desk she can’t even see her Styrofoam bowl of chowder.

 _You know it’s been no fun drinking on my own_ , he says instead of a greeting, his voice hitting a weird sad part inside her like they really were friends. _The other two active members of the Sarah Manning Abandonment Club are an eight year-old and my foster mum, so..._

Beth smiles, painfully. _What, no Schmidt?_

 _Vic? The Dick?_ Felix says, snorting. _Yeah, he wishes. Thanks, by the way. Sarah said you locked him up._

A few officers pass by with a drunk and disorderly, arms flailing. For a hopeful moment it looks like the guy’ll take Beth’s chowder with him but his hand misses and she twists her mouth in mild disappointment.

 _Well, the task force, but you’re welcome_ , she tells Felix.

She’s got ten minutes left before it’s back to paperwork, the reward of missing nearly a full week.

 _Listen_ , Felix starts.

It could go anywhere. In the pause she pictures Sarah and the guy flying off to Europe, or grabbing her kid and hopping the border to like, make it big in Hollywood. Or maybe Sarah’s found someone else. Maybe she’s jumped all the way to her ninth life and this is the only reason Felix is telling her now. Because that’s it. One more stupid decision and it’s over.

 _I’m fucking listening_ , she says, after he still doesn’t continue.

He breathes out, something long. _She gets caught up sometimes. In all the running. It’s like, shit happens and she doesn’t know how to do anything else._

 _They’re gonna kill her_ , Beth says.

She sits up enough to see something dark land in her chowder. A fly, or something equally disgusting that she probably deserves.

 _Well, kind of_ , Felix says. _But I told her to call you. So. You know, if she does, just, pick up._

Beth tosses the chowder in the trash. Avoids Art’s eyes as he walks in.

In a different universe she’d be strong enough to ignore Sarah’s call. But she knows herself, so she tells Felix she won’t miss it.

He says: good.

He says: she hates herself.

He says: Beth? I’m sorry. For all of it.

 

* * *

 

Maybe Sarah doesn’t call because she’s trying to do the right thing.

Beth gets high and sees her in the bathroom mirror anyway, all battered like some fucked up ghost, tossing a phone between her two bruised hands.

 _Just do it_ , Beth says. _I’ll be fine._

Sarah shakes her head. Her eyes are Beth’s now, a shadow.

 

* * *

 

 _You missed the appointment_ , Art says in the car.

 _I know_ , Beth says. _I’ll go to the next one._

It’s raining again. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, quiet in the way that always means more than his words do. They break for a red light and it bleeds through the smear on the windshield and Beth lets her apology well up in her chest.

 _I’m going to the next one_ , she promises.

But he still doesn’t say a word, and even though the light changes it can’t collect all its red from the drops on the glass.

 

* * *

 

She waits six days. On the seventh-

Christ, if her mother was here to see her overlooking all these signs.

On the seventh she packs it in, rests, whatever God did when the earth was good and spinning and no one had yet stuck their fingers in the pie. She lets her mind go to soft places where everything is green. Bountiful. Sarah wears her hair long and doesn’t hear the snake with his silver forked tongue.

Beth’s heard them say it wasn’t even an apple at all, maybe, but a pomegranate.

Or maybe they’re condensing myths. Really trying to do their best to get the story straight. Eve puts a blood-coloured seed on her tongue and goes down to the underworld. God weeps.

Beth wipes her tears because she’s not the dead and Sarah could cross the river without looking back.

Lot’s wife. Orpheus.

It’s all loss, anyway. All things they couldn’t hold onto.

Her phone slips from her grasp in the sea of white sheets and doesn’t ring as long as she looks at it. She shuts her eyes. Silence.

But Sarah never hears the snake.

So she wouldn’t think to go back for Beth.

 

* * *

 

 _I thought I got rid of all the pills_ , Paul says.

Beth’s vision swims. _I know._

 

* * *

 

Sarah calls while Beth’s in the shower, and she almost misses it. But:

 _Hi_ , Sarah breathes.

Beth is naked, and Paul is still asleep, and she lets the shower run to leave it that way. She sits on the floor. Cold. Sarah exhales, and Beth’s skin is slowly turning to marble.

 _You’re angry_ , Sarah says.

Beth pulls her fingertips through a puddle on the tile until her nails catch. There are a lot of things she could be right now; mostly she’s just shivering, knees to her chest. Mostly she wonders if Sarah’s even really there on the other end. _How’s Cornwall_ , she imagines asking. Of course she’s angry.

She’s terrified. She’s a gaping hole.

 _Felix said he told you_ , Sarah says on Beth’s silence, taking it as the response Beth isn’t sure she meant to give. _I’m sorry, Fuck, Beth, I’m-_

And then another breath, this one rusted.

Beth’s chest is closing in on itself, a trap with metal teeth, the jaws of her heart tightening to a mechanical hum. She can feel each tooth as it pierces through. As Sarah’s breath hitches, and the silence splits between them.

 _I mean, you have a boyfriend_ , Sarah says after a while, in the smallest voice.

And then Beth understands everything.

 _Sarah_ , she says. It’s her own fault.

It’s her own damn fault.

 _What did you even want from me?_ Sarah mumbles. _What did you think was going to happen?_

 _I thought I’d be happy_ , Beth doesn’t say, because it was only for a second, and it was her most foolish moment. She thought she’d be happy. She thought Sarah would stay. She thought nothing of her own life, of Paul, of logistics, and Sarah made the right choice for all of them. Sarah moved on.

All Beth can hear is the downpour of water in the shower behind her. And then her own voice, cracking.

_My dad died._

_Beth…_

But she hangs up, and Sarah doesn’t have a chance to continue.

 

* * *

 

Beth goes to the damn appointment. Sits in the shrink’s fabric chair, arms crossed.

 _Art tells me you’ve been struggling_ , the shrink says.

Out the window a pigeon struts along a shit-covered ledge with its chest puffed. It’s the same dirty grey as the building behind it, across the alley, where every window has the shades down.

Beth looks to her nails. Looks up, and the shrink watches with a neutral expression.

 _I’m only here as a favour_ , she says. _Because he’s worried._

The shrink nods. _So why don’t we start there. Why do you think he’s worried?_

It’s like she rammed a whole coil of rubber tubing down her throat, and it’s all jammed up inside her, squeaking against itself, pushing little puffs of air around until everything just feels tight. Trapped. She lifts her shoulders.

_He caught me on a bad day._

 

* * *

 

Narcotics takes over the dregs of the Pouchy operation. The task force is dismantled. The station goes back to usual, and Beth continues to filter through nothing on the quarry body. Still no word on that right hand.

 _You know, it really did feel like we were getting somewhere_ , the lieutenant says by the coffee machine, when Beth’s getting her fifth cup of the day.

She frowns in confusion.

 _Pouchy_ , he clarifies. _Felt like… I dunno. Felt nice to be nearing the end of something, for once._

There’s a whole stack of papers on Beth’s desk that agree with him. There are boxes in the basement, piled in rows, of jobs they couldn’t solve. She gets it – maybe more than she should, all things considered. It was like they could almost see the sun on the horizon after an eternally long night.

 _We got pretty far_ , she says when the machine finishes pouring. _Narcotics’ll just tie up the loose ends. But we got them there._

He smiles and it reminds her of her dad – or the dad she pieced together in her mind, growing up, with all the bad bits cut out. It’s an appreciative smile.

 _You really threw yourself into it, Childs_ , he says after a moment, a hand on her shoulder.

He surprised the both of them by putting her on the task force. It wasn’t a test, just a spot that needed to be filled, and she was probably the homicide detective they’d miss the least so it made sense. But she did throw herself into it. She plowed right through. Because of Sarah.

 

* * *

 

 _She called_ , she tells Art, on his couch, the two of them watching someone’s cake deflate on TV.

He’s finally letting her have beer again in his presence, probably because she dragged her ass to the appointment. Drinking at least makes this show a little more tolerable, all the people and their small problems, trying to prove their worth with fondant. She can watch the cakes topple and feel a slight twinge of sympathy. Or. God, maybe part of her roots for them.

 _What’d she say?_ Art asks.

She considers lying. She considers changing the topic, something she hits him with all too often.

 _That I have a boyfriend_ , she mutters. _That… fuck. I don’t know. She’s sorry._

A contestant on the screen watches in horror as his cupcake tower collapses, sending little flower-shaped cakes tumbling to the floor.

Art’s head turns to her. Turns away.

She sips her beer.

 _I mean, you do have a boyfriend_ , he says after awhile, quiet like he expects her to break.

She exhales. _Yeah. I know._

She doesn’t bring up that her boyfriend doesn’t love her, because it’s inconsequential and it doesn’t seem necessary anymore. At least he’s there. At least he still wanted to look at her after she pulled the darkness from her chest, and he didn’t tell her it was her fault.

Art seems to be going through the bullet points of Beth’s relationship in his head anyway, like he’s stacking them against this ghost that she now carries as some souvenir.

She could help him out. Tell him the pros and cons of each side of it. But-

 _I’m moving on_ , she says. _It’s time._

He takes her hand, cold from the beer. _You really do deserve it._

 

* * *

 

The problem with moving on:

There’s still that picture of Sarah and her kid tucked into the sun visor. There’s still Felix, who calls every so often, with a few more apologies, a few more invitations to get plastered for whatever reason they can think of. There’s still Paul stepping around her, maybe finally seeing her for what she is. Broken. In that way he always wanted her to be.

(Too bad, Paul. Don’t you know if you get what you want it’ll only make you not want it anymore?)

And then. Finally.

There’s Sarah outside the station with two coffees in her hands.

It’s well after midnight, so god knows how long she’s been out here in the cold. She’s under a streetlight this time like she wants to be seen. Tangles of hair poke out from a hat, and her eyes are darker. There’s a bruise around one of them that Beth doesn’t see until it’s too late. Then she’s right in front of her.

Sarah’s smile is terrified, but she hands over a coffee even so.

 _Black_ , she says. _Both of them._

Beth fits her mittens around the half-frozen cup and struggles to say something that isn’t stupid, like _I don’t think I’m actually seeing you_ or _you’re even prettier than I let myself remember_. She opens her mouth and then shuts it again, and Sarah’s head hangs like she knows it’s all on her this time.

 _I couldn’t just_ \- Sarah starts, sounding too much like an apology.

Beth looks to her car and Sarah’s gaze follows, and they’re both walking. Beth with a lump in her throat, Sarah a stray dog at her side.

 _Your dad fucking died_ , Sarah finishes, like she didn’t want to say it at all. _And I was just…_

They cross the street in unison – two shadows passing over the thin layer of snow that’s falling, somehow mostly undisturbed. It’ll be slush by morning; just a river of grey sludge. But right now it sparkles.

 _You told me you left because they’d kill you_ , Beth hears herself saying, maybe because she’s looking down at the snow, at her feet making holes right through to the sidewalk.

It’s weird, saying it out loud. It’s like opening her mouth to show Sarah the snake that’s taken up residence in her throat, coiling and coiling until it’s just skin and teeth and anger and regret and that pair of sharp eyes that never seem to blink.

Sarah lets out a noise that could be a laugh from anyone else, but it’s wet. Broken.

 _I did_ , she says, wiping her nose with the rough back of her hand. _And then I… I dunno, started thinking about it. What I was really doing to you. And I couldn’t come back._

It hangs there like an apple-red truth for a full minute.

Beth sips her coffee, the chill snaking through her, and they’re at her car in the parking lot and this time Sarah doesn’t lean against it. It’s dusted in snow, anyway. Sarah can’t lean because then she’d make a mark, and Beth’s looking at the bruise on Sarah’s cheekbone, yellow and purple and grey in the light. Her chest is sore.

 _I was happy_ , she says, looking away.

And that’s it. That’s what Sarah gave her that she didn’t have before.

Sarah steps a bit closer, snowflakes settling in her hair. She has awe in her eyes; it’s under doubt, but it’s there. _Why?_ she doesn’t ask. And Beth’s glad, because she isn’t sure she could answer.

Or maybe the answer is this: one night she woke up and Sarah was still holding her.

So she closes the space between them now, moves hair out of Sarah’s face. She kisses her. There in the snow. Where anyone could see.

 _You came back anyway_ , she says, after, when Sarah has cold fingers over her lips. _That has to mean something._

She isn’t asking if it does; she doesn’t want Sarah to consider it, to roll it around on her tongue until its marble form clicks. Right now with the snow glinting in the beam of a streetlight Sarah is here because she came back because it was time to turn around. Not because Beth’s dad died, or the guy did… things Beth’s too hurt to think about. Not because Cornwall turned out to be too small. Or because Beth finally locked up all the guys who might have Sarah’s name on a list and a knife in their back pocket.

Sarah’s fingers drift from her mouth to the rim of her coffee cup, where snow settles in a tiny carpet. She’s careful as she brushes it off. Carefully avoiding Beth’s eyes.

 _I could give you my reasons_ , Sarah says.

Beth nods, shrugs. Sarah’s lips are almost a smile.

 _But it doesn’t matter_ , she says. _It doesn’t really make a difference, does it?_

 _No,_ Beth says.

And: _get in the car._

And: _I’m taking you home._

 

* * *

 

Paul’s away. Beth’s bed has always been too big.

 _If I left him would you stick around?_ Beth doesn’t ask. She tucks Sarah into her own spot, takes Paul’s to cleanse it. Sarah wiggles back until they’re touching. Beth fits her arms around her.

Sarah says, _I’m staying._

Beth says, _yeah?_

Sarah says, _I want to make it work._

Really, Sarah says nothing. She’s asleep. But in the dark Beth pictures the conversations they’d have if she was brave enough, if she could do anything other than kiss Sarah’s shoulder where something’s trying to heal. She tells her about her dad. She tells her about the pills. She says _I’m sorry, Sarah,_ and _I love you, Sarah_ , and she’s so scared her blood runs cold.

But Sarah sleeps. And, eventually, Beth does too.

 

* * *

 

One image remains, even after it’s over:

Sarah at the table, in Beth’s sweatpants, drinking black coffee with pillow-creased cheeks. The morning light finds her through the glass. She turns to where Beth stands in the kitchen burning toast, just to give her a smile.

Beth smiles back.

 

* * *

 

Three months later, Beth has her own shitty little place. The furnace burns too hot. The windows all stick. It gaps between floorboards, and her socks always catch. Sarah comes round, sometimes, always on her own staggered schedule. With Kira.

They sit at the small table; build houses out of cards.

Sarah leaves her toothbrush in a cup on the bathroom sink.

 

* * *

 

The shrink says, _what about the bad days?_

Beth shrugs.

_They pass._


End file.
